Salesman: Heyyy bud!

Ernie: Hey who?

Salesman: You.. yeah, hey you, commoverhere!

Ernie: Huh... what?

Salesman: You look like an intelligent guy...

Ernie: I do? I do! Sure! cheeeh heh hhehhehheh

Salesman: You look like someone who would be interested in a bargain. Riiiiight... Wanna buy an... eight?

Ernie: An eight? Like a number 8? Why would I buy an eight? Seems like a weird thing to buy.

Salesman: Well you buy it. You put in on your wall see... and if you want to remember how many legs a spider has you look at it and..

Ernie: (long pause) EIGHT!!! A SPIDER HAS EIGHT LEGS!!!!

Salesman: shhhhh!!!!!! c'mon!

Ernie: (quietly) Eight legs!

Salesman: Riiiiight.

Ernie: Wow!

Salesman: Yeah. And if you want to remember when you ate breakfast you look and ...

Ernie: OMG!!! EIGHT!!! I HAD BREAKFAST AT EIGHT!!!!

Salesman: shhhhhhh! keep it down! c'mon!

Ernie: (quietly) That's amazing! I had breakfast at 8!

Salesman: That's right.. see? And if you want to know how many reindeer Santy Claus has...

Ernie: (eyes wide, in whisper, real close) Eight. I've got chills man! Chills!

Salesman: (eyes darting left and right) Sooooo how many can I write you down for? And can I offer you our 8 year warranty?

Ernie: Oh I can't buy any 8s right now. I blew all my dough on a buncha 9s. Could I interest you in some?

Salesman: (walking away) This cruel cruel life. I coulda been an accountant!

Ernie: I'll throw in some 2s I still got from last year... think I may have some fours somewhere.

Salesman: (into the neon lights... far far away) No I said to my dear old mother. An accountant is no life for me. Eights.. Eights are where all the action is.

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You know... it is hard carrying the hopes and dreams of your people. I was raised hoping to someday see my people recover their dignity and land lost to the Inuits of Greenland. Their lost blubber. Their short sheeted galleys.

I have a welt on my forehead from where my milk, caught off-guard by a sudden October snap freeze, has iceified and cuffed me one as I tried to nobly guzzle it down as is our way. As I struggled to keep consciousness, that instinct ingrained by all those years of suffering in that cold ancestral land, I could not help but to think about K'nute the Milk Quaffer... our once-upon-a-dream hero in his glory days... days... days....

K'nute was made for the trade as we say. He could hold an old timey glass bottle between each pair of fingers and tilt back his head for straight Viking pitcher pours, full cold pewter, as effortlessly as he took 'fisk from granny on Sundays.

We knew he was the one to lead us back to the fore! Many was the late night in the hall as we fleered and frolicked before the cauldron of ale! He could bedevil the wits of Odin! He could out prank ol' Loki! Taller than a giant! Hide tougher than an old bridge haunting troll.

But even as the year came for our voyage, as our fleet near ready came, he vanished. I was sent to find where he'd gone. It was a long long journey. Full of hazards... full of hardships. Harried by gods. Bitten by the fangs of winter.

I came upon him at last upon the banks of the Nordenskold... where it spills into the bleak, foggy bay of yore. He was casting chum out into the water.. brooding mightily on who knows what. Watching dolphins roil and strike as they fed their sleek, glistening bellies on that charity.

"K'nute!" Said I... "Your people need you! How can you abandon them, now, so close to our moment of destiny...."

He just sadly and seriously said to me softy, looking deep into my eyes, " I must be here... serving these noble porpoises!"
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We , the long suffering and dedicated editorial staff at DoRide Industries, must release this PSA regarding the previous post. There are many dubious assertions and provoking claims made in that piece that we cannot be responsible for. Sadly the scoundrel author has the full support of the entire writing staff. Even in the most forward looking and conforming institutions one must deal with dysfunctional departments. They have somehow captured the post banning feature of the medium and sadly we therefore have no ability to enforce our usual iron fisted discipline upon those reprobates.

The scoundrel these days can overwhelm a dedicated editorial board by sheer volume of his spouting. So we will focus only upon one point, the use of "galley" in place of "long-ship". Where have we ever, ever!,, seen the noble Viking long-ship referred to as a mere galley? While it is true that the sturdy reliable galley served fleets in Mediterranean battles certainly at least up to the battle of Lepanto, in which they performed well, it should be stated. In fact it was fresh upon their success with boarding and ramming tactics that the Spanish Armada made for England with some of these veterans in their fleet though doing less well in the trickier waters of the channel than in the placid sea. While true, no creditable authority on such matters would ever mistake these vessels. In fact the advance in technology is often given credit for the very Viking Age.

We are sure that this responsible PSA has cut off at the proverbial pass lurid, sensational posts involving vast fleets of Inuit warships of who knows what description grappling in battle fever with gigantic , striped sailed, dragon prow leering battleships propelled with oiled up, panting free rowers. Spewing something like Greek fire out of their snarling mouths. While boarding parties clash loudly as burning, heaving derelicts groan with ramming wounds and slowly sink, oblivious to the clash of empires on their decks...

Now the reader should know that long ships actually did make it to the Mediterranean. There were battles involving these raiders in many kingdoms touched by this sea. But no one, not even a member of our usually soused writing staff, would ever, ever! mistake a galley for a long ship.

Oh we could go into the differences between these makes and models. Their different roles and place in history. But we feel that we have made our point. The role of the editor is to make the point with an economy of words. No need to veer off in wild tangents like our colorful colleagues. No indulging in passions. Just the facts and sobering reality.

Now enjoy the remainder of the weekend and stay safe. Your poor minds are under continual unprovoked assault.



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It's OK. I know how it is. In these trying, dangerous times... You crave that stability, that harbor in the storm, that reassuring presence that only the grizzled veteran can give to his charge. That father figure... that antidote for what ails...

And I am here. Though there are a million other things I could be doing. Fun things. Decadent things. Things that they would blush to write into the most lurid sagas. Sagas full of bouncing tits and oiled up torsos. Sagas that make the ice veined gleam with sweat.

Yes... I can feel you moving to the edge of your seat. As you prick up your ears. Your instinct is that this is one of those rare moments when wisdom surges across the generational gap like lightening discharge and changes life forever. Making age bear down a little more upon narrow shoulders. Turning peach fuzz into sharp bristle. Sunhaloed fineness into oil thick coarseness.

Warrrrgggghhhhhh. I am old enough to remember when the Inuit horde rolled out onto the ice plain with their war worms growling! I remember how the frozen grain squeaked in its coldness as winter weird surged over in war frenzy! I was in the ranks that stood firm as that hell storm hit granite storm wall as naked berserk unleashed to hit vulnerable flanks.

The blizzard swirls strong and sharp in my clear, past projecting mind. Iron biting mail. Steel flexing and shrieking. Chains coming off foul creatures loose from dungeons dark in a chance to win freedom in exchange for war glory. Drums beating loud but storm muffled. The very land buckling under the press of boots and war engines.

Far from the probing eye of lounge chair indulging historian. North... north where histories are lost to the veiling darkness of long winter. Where the corrupt king dare not set up court. Where only the snow weird is truly in his element. Where each breath is bought in pain and perilous knife edge virtue.

Your lives are comfort and luxury beset dreams compared to your hard fighting ancestors, maggots. Drop to your boney knees and give them your deepest respect for bringing such ease to your pitiful existences. Shut your yaps with your pathetic complaining and strive to have one eighth of their valor in the face of death and all it means... means.. to these temporal, nonentities that blow away like light dusting snow of morning to the hell tempest of battle evil uncorked.

The ranks meet. The war god gets his crop. Valhalla will gorge on heroes soon. Mark. Go quiet and mark youngling. Feel the power and truth of your line stretching back generation by generation and get ready to add your small spark to the conflagration.

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Every year I vow that I will deal with my past in the cold sober light of midday. I will approach All Hallow's Eve prepared by a day at least of reflection. Yet every year I prove myself again the coward. Delaying until the clock is striking 11 to retreat to my dank, dark, chamber and grip quill with quivering fingers.

I must confess that I have imbibed the most powerful and devilish spirits as I struggle to control my racing mind. There is something in me that rebels like a horse being driven onto a phalanx when forced to cast my mind back to those days... Those last happy days...

I must face worse things I am sure as life winds its last bends and switchbacks before petering out in a dry bed... Who knows when.. Who knows why... But somehow I know I will be calmer for all of that then the simple recalling of that dark, tragic, unraveling of sense and order, that introduction to the devil, that unveiling of the horrors that are laid out for us all beneath the light covers. Just waiting for us to notice a loose corner on the spread, like the villain's chain mail under red wedding finery, and pulling back with quaking fingers...

We all must one day uncover the demons that hell has created just for us. We must discover the edge of the death engine that is our lot. I discovered mine when I was just at that age... that age where summers are most golden.... when puppy love has first blazed onto the scene and all those tender acts that once seemed so odd suddenly make sense and the world seems a perfect place. It all seems so easy. Your young heart wants to share the ease and joy of it. You sense that others, older more experienced souls, do not perceive things the same way and you only want to gush out your vision and let them see the splendid things that await them all. If only they could see... see with your puppy dog eyes just how it is.

Even now I am stalling I know. Cold sweat has broken out all over me. I have to put on more clothing to try to keep from shivering. The dance of the candle shadows on the walls is making me jump. Even though I know I am perfectly safe at the moment. That the demons I must confess are writhing in a domain I haven't visited for years... until the duty bell tolls... as it must... and I will be forced to confront them without the bars of constraint and order in place. When it is their time and they have the right to consume me.

Not that the confessing will save me. Or save anyone. It is a duty. Stark and unambiguous like any of its kind. Compelled by the force that teaches good from evil. The kind that makes you play for one team or the other. Despite my weakness.. despite my fear... until now I have always chosen the good. Even as the consequences have been slowly revealed to me over my life. I will do so until I depart this existence. I swear. It is the only thing I have left. The rules of the game is that those things could not hide their true nature from my eye even as they burst suddenly into my world. And my soul rejected them... was repulsed by them.

Is that a wolf howling outside? It sounds like something not of this world. Oh why did I choose to live in this place so remote? Why did I develop that loner personality that makes me face the night things alone in a cold bed instead of with arms around dear drinking buddies? Every creak and groan of this old place makes me jump. Sounds louder than the shouts of soldiers charging into the line.

What's that? My procrastination has run out the clock. It chimes twelve slowly. I failed to confess it! For the first time I have shirked my duty! What comes next? What penalty is there for this supreme disobedience?

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It is rare that I write an after Hallow's Eve report. Perhaps this is penance for not confessing and seeming to get away with this crime.

I needn't remind you that we are moral entities. That we owe one death to the gods. That despite the trivializations we face by disrespectful rulers and time poor merchants we face heroic decisions against relentless, diabolical spirit foes. That we must blaze forth gloriously accomplishing our great deeds before sinking down into the clutches of our dirt naps...

As I see the hectic spot of some fever receding from my wary pale face... as I see the shadows dance again in my chamber of deep contemplation... I must once again grapple with that pit of hell demons writhing in my personal spirit antechamber. I must stare them down across the barren plane of mystic mental stasis and dispatch them yet again to the end of their tethers in their terribly confining cell.

Begone... Begone... you have no power here yet. Your domain is not yet permitted to make contact with this domain. The Eve has come and gone. My penance is ending now. Do not mistake this lapse for any unraveling of my character. Oh how I hear you growl and howl in anticipation at the slightest weakness. There is no weakness here. Begone.,, begone.

And now I will turn my mind back to Green Acres. Yes Lisa... that is the tower. We are... in Paris.

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Excuse me, Mr. Hoots I hate to bug a busy bird
But I want to learn the sax
And I need a helpful word
I always get a silly squeak
When I play the blues
Ernie, keep your cool I'll teach ya how to blow the sax
I think I dig your problem
It's rubber, and it quacks
You'll never find the skill you seek
Till you pay your dues
You gotta put down the duckie (put down the duckie)
Put down the duckie (put down the duckie)
Put down the duckie yeah, you gotta leave the duck alone
You gotta put down the duckie (put down the duckie)
Put down the duckie (put down the duckie)
Put down the duckie if you wanna play the saxophone!
You didn't hear a word I said
You gotta get it through your head
Don't be a stubborn cluck
Ernie, lay aside the duck!
I've learned a thing or two from years of playing in a band
It's hard to play a saxophone with something in your hand
To be a fine musician
You're gonna have to face the facts
Though you're blessed with flying fingers
When you wanna wail, you're stuck
What good are flying fingers if they're wrapped around a duck?
Change the toy's position if you wanna ace the sax!
You gotta put down the duckie (put down the duckie)
Put down the duckie (put down the duckie)
Put down the duckie yeah, you gotta leave the duck alone
You gotta put down the duckie (put down the duckie)
Put down the duckie (put down the duckie)
Put down the duckie if you wanna play the saxophone!
One more time!
Put down the duckie (put down the duckie)
Put down the duckie (put it down)
Put down the duckie and you gotta leave the duck alone
Put down the duckie (put down the duckie)
I said I said put it down (down)
Put down the duckie if you wanna play the saxophone!
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Kadesh! Never forget Kadesh maggots!

The dread Hittites... locks dressed... lay in wait to spring a trap to crush Pharaoh's army as they made siege. A surging fleet of heavy war chariots churning up clouds of dust to take one combined arms division, Amon Ra, in flank and obliterate it. The beset Pharaoh concentrating his forces and leading fleet skirmish chariots into the enemy rear. Five divisions arriving. The plain covered in dust and confusion. River crossings fast and initiative securing.

And finally, the arrival of the mountie peace keeping force. Orange uniforms blazing as they pressed in between and separated. Dragging squirming kings into a tent where they put pen to war ending treaty.

Where tyrants clash and the plains are dead littered... find ye the crimson vanguard striking home for that glorious day when kings bow to world constitution and war is the thing of intragalactic rivalries. Walk infant. How long will you crawl?

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Hollywood paaaah! Comic books pffft! They miss the point completely.

Odin is by far the more interesting of the gods. Thor? Muscle bound knit wit. Loki? More interesting but no match for Valfather. The yammering femgods... , please... *eye roll*

It wearies me to the bones to even think about explaining it to the rabble. I pick up Adams and flinch. What is this resentment of the Modern Age?

Lemme tell you what it is in words you can ken... Odin.. has that certain way about him... Damn suddenly the weight of the task sits heavily on my shoulders... Can't you just read some sagas? Real ones... not some dubious ones in pulp bindings. Ah why do I bother. It is talking to the dog who can't tell the bowl of Alpo from the dish of fish heads.

Yeah... to hell with that! I am just gonna sit here in my lair and think contentedly about good sagas. Good fleerings. Thor confused and irritated by one eyed boatmen. Loki rampent and then given the fitting reward. Not by some wise king figure, some boring father figure, *sigh* I grow weary again. When I think of all the rich characters that have been created. Then look at the sad menagerie trotted out by time starved staffs high on dope it just... There is karma to consider. The blessings of luxury and security balanced by .... where the hell is jebidiah atkinson? He is what is needed here!

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